


Bird Guy

by glassclosetcastiel



Series: Destiel Smut Brigade "Missed Connections" Fic Dump [7]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Birds, Castiel is a Hot Bird Guy, Dean is kind of dumb sometimes, Destiel Smut Brigade, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Missed Connections, Misunderstandings, Park Ranger Dean, Personal Ads, Sam is a nerd, ornithology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-31
Updated: 2015-03-31
Packaged: 2018-03-18 19:36:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3581412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glassclosetcastiel/pseuds/glassclosetcastiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Oh yeah, it’s Tuesday. Hot Bird Guy Day.” Sam's eyes are still lowered, but Dean sees the corner of his mouth quirk up. <i>Asshole.</i></p><p>“I never called him ‘Hot Bird Guy,’” he insists. “Just Bird Guy.” Dean can feel the heat in his cheeks, so for once he’s glad that he’s eternally sunburned. “And you don’t know anything, Sammy. I’m just doin’ my job.” </p><p>He opens the door and steps through, ignoring the mumble that follows him out, sounding suspiciously like, <i>yeah well, you never wanted to do it so bad before Hot Bird Guy showed up.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Bird Guy

**Author's Note:**

> My submission for the Destiel Smut Brigade "Missed Connections" Challenge! They said to challenge yourself, and oh boy, did I ever. 
> 
> I would like to preface this work by saying that I have no background in ornithology, nor do I have any connections to the National Park Service. I have also never been to Mason Neck National Park, and I am not a vegan. Thus, inaccuracies are probably imminent. If you are an ornithologist or have ties to the National Park Service, and you notice any wild inaccuracies, I welcome any and all of your comments. 
> 
> That being said, I did an intense amount of research for this piece. Like, more research and than I've ever done on anything before, including projects at my university. So although I don't really know what I'm talking about, I hope that the point comes across. 
> 
> I must say an incredible amount of thanks to my wonderful betas, who counseled and occasionally babied me through this piece. You guys pulled me back from the brink of trashing the whole idea a few times, so thank you so so much to [Becca](http://archiveofourown.org/users/alternaurora), [Jess](http://archiveofourown.org/users/museaway), [Izzy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/profoundbondoflove), Helen, and Christine. I appreciate you all so much!
> 
> (Also, this is my first attempt at smut. I realize that it's not very smutty at all, but it's about as risqué as I can get. Please be kind.) 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

“Son of a bitch," Dean growls, dropping to a knee and scowling at the strange little wooden sculpture, nearly hidden in the bramble and bushes off the main trail. He turns a little in place, sweeping the immediate vicinity for any sign of mischief, but he's met only with the soft, warm breeze whispering through the hickories and the occasional chatter of birds in the distance. He presses the Push-to-Talk button on his two-way shoulder mic and angles his chin down to speak directly into it. "Delta 429."

The bundle of twigs has been formed into a perfect circle, sticking up out of the ground like a hairy Quidditch goal post. Even weirder, it's as if the little shits built it from the ground up, using vines and roots for stability. When he pokes at it, it doesn't budge.

"429, go ahead," Garth's twang crackles through the two-way speaker, entirely too chipper for Dean's liking, but he's always like that. Dean rolls his eyes as he holds down the PTT again.

“Be advised, those goddamn kids are out setting up for some Blair Witch crap just off High Point.”

“What kind of Blair Witch crap?” Garth asks. Dean sighs, getting to his feet and pulling the strange circular structure with him. It takes quite a yank.

“It's those damn Ghostbuster assholes again, I just know it,” Dean mutters more to himself than to dispatch, but Garth cuts him off.

“Facers.” 

"Yeah, whatever. They're leaving these weird... demonic circles." Dean holds the sculpture up to the east, into the gently cresting spring sunlight. Much as he hates to admit it, the thing is pretty well-made. It’s constructed only from twigs and vines- no glue or string- and holds pretty solidly together. He turns it this way and that, then searches the area again. There are blue flower petals everywhere. _What the fuck kind of pagan ritual were they trying to set up?_ he wonders. It wouldn't be the first time the assholes pulled a stunt like this. "Advise Bravo 618, be on the lookout for two teenagers with camera equipment."

"Ed and Harry," Garth supplies, and _of course Garth from dispatch would know their names._ He's so goddamn friendly. It's sickening. "Haven't seen 'em around in months, though," he goes on. "Not since you and Benny scared the bejesus out of 'em last time."

Dean scoffs, brushing off the knees of his khakis with his free hand. "Yeah, well. They're at it again. They know damn well they need a permit to film in this park. I catch 'em again, I'm gonna put 'em in cuffs. No more warnings." As if to illustrate his point, Dean taps the handcuffs on his belt.

"10-4," Garth sing-songs into the two-way, cheerful as anything, as if Dean were putting in his lunch order.

"Sam around?" Dean asks, heading back down the path to the main trail.

"Back in his office, I expect," Garth says. "Want me to see if I can find 'im?"

Dean shakes his head. "Nah, I'll just swing by and drop this thing off on my way."

"10-4," Garth repeats, and Dean pauses to set the wooden sculpture down so he can remove his hat and wipe the sweat from his forehead. It's just now springtime, but the breeze coming off of the Potomac is warm and fragrant. _Too warm for Virginia,_ Dean decides, replacing his hat. He has half a mind to swallow his pride and put on the short-legged khakis some of the rangers wear but thinks better of it. He and Sam have had the argument about a hundred times- how's he supposed to get any respect around the park if he puts on those little shorts, lily-white bowlegs on display for the world to gawk at? He picks up the sculpture and heads off down the trail, following the brown arrow pointing its way to the ranger station.

.•.

Sam takes the weird thing almost reverently, squinting in that way that makes Dean remember just how big a nerd his little brother is.

"Dean, I don't think this is some Blair Witch Project imitation." Sam’s eyes never leave the sculpture. Dean cocks his hip against Sam's desk, unscrewing the top to his water bottle.

"What the hell else could it be?" He takes a long gulp, and Sam's face screws up in thought.

"Some kind of... nest? Maybe?" he suggests, setting it down on the desk and gesturing to it. From that angle, it does resemble a nest.

"Nah, it was up and down. Like this," Dean sets it upright on the desk in demonstration. "You ever seen a bird make somethin' like that?"

Sam frowns a bit, but shakes his head. "No, but… I dunno. It's just so intricate. I don't think those guys could have built something like this."

“Alright, Isaac Newton,” Dean turns to the door. “You have fun figuring that out.”

“Isaac Newton was a physicist, Dean,” Sam explains, a little too haughtily, and Dean waves him off.

“Whatever. I’m off to do my rounds.”

“Oh yeah, it’s Tuesday. Hot Bird Guy Day.” Sam’s eyes are back on the circular structure, but Dean sees the corner of his mouth quirk up. _Asshole._

“I never called him ‘Hot Bird Guy,’” he insists. “Just Bird Guy.” Dean can feel the heat in his cheeks, so for once he’s glad that he’s eternally sunburned. “And you don’t know anything, Sammy. I’m just doin’ my job.” He opens the door and steps through, ignoring the mumble that follows him out, sounding suspiciously like, _yeah well, you never wanted to do it so bad before Hot Bird Guy showed up._

.•.

Dean is technically in law enforcement, if you want to split hairs. He carries a service pistol and a stun gun, though they’re mostly on his belt in case of bears or the odd bobcat. He feels a certain sense of pride in his job. It’s not easy being a park ranger- his duties are immeasurable and he hardly ever sits still- so making the rounds of the park tends to be sort of soothing. Twice a day, every day, Dean goes on patrol through his section of the trails, making sure no one’s hunting or poaching or setting fires. _Or filming._ Basically, it’s a glorified excuse to commune with nature and stretch his legs.

There’s a spot right off the front trail where the trees are spaced just so and the footpaths are dotted with benches. He chose this area to patrol specifically, claiming that he wanted to get the chance to see some action every once in awhile. In truth, it’s because Bird Guy started eating lunch in the park on Tuesdays.

Bird Guy (or _Hot Bird Guy,_ as Dean has never called him aloud,) is a man about Dean’s age who comes and sits in the park every Tuesday, usually writing in a yellow notebook in between bites of a sandwich. He got his nickname from the ties he wears, each featuring a different type of bird: pink flamingos against a baby blue background, a detailed image of some kind of ducks, an abstract impressionist flock of blackbirds, a stark black tie with a colorful set of cranes. He’s attractive in a vaguely Eastern European sort of way, with strong, angular features and a tame head of dark brown hair. Dean’s never exactly gotten close enough to tell for sure, but he’s certain that Bird Guy has blue eyes.

Today, as Dean heads down the path with a purposeful gait (he’s just doing his rounds, after all) he notices that Bird Guy is standing with his back to the path, almost engulfed in the undergrowth of the tree line. Huge industrial headphones cover his ears, so he doesn’t hear Dean approaching. Dean gets about fifteen feet away before noticing that, _son of a bitch_ , the guy is pointing a _goddamn gun_ into the brush.

“Hey! Buddy!” he shouts, staying back. _Fuck, this is a wildlife sanctuary._ Hunting is strictly forbidden apart from a brief deer season, and that ended months ago. Dean carefully pulls his own service pistol out of its holster and aims it at the guy’s back. He doesn’t want to shoot- he’s never actually had to use it before- but the guy obviously can’t hear him. Dean presses the PTT on his shoulder mic, inching carefully forward. 

“Delta 429.” 

The guy shifts a little, putting his back more toward Dean and angling the gun out of his line of sight.

“429, go ahead,” Garth says, his tenor voice crackling through the trees. Bird Guy still doesn’t turn.

“I got a 10-15, requesting backup at Bayview Trail, over,” Dean hisses into his shoulder. They really only use voice protocol in an emergency. Immediately, a shrill beeping noise comes over his intercom, and Garth’s usually peppy voice sounds professional and calm when he sends out a call for backup.

“All units, signal 27 at Bayview Trail. 10-15 in progress.”

Dean can feel the adrenaline pumping through him. This is _so_ not how he wanted his first meeting with Hot Bird Guy to go. He’s been passing through the trail every Tuesday for a month, trying to work up the courage to do more than nod politely or smile when he passes the man as he sits and takes notes on his usual bench. Dean would never in a million years have thought that _this_ would be the way he’d eventually interact with the guy, but it’s not surprising. Nothing in Dean’s life can ever be simple.

Benny’s voice rumbles through the speaker. “Bravo 618, 10-50, I am Signal 16. Hang on tight, Delta. Over and out.”

Dean clenches his jaw when he hears the Signal 16, meaning Benny’s leaving his location. He’s out doing his rounds on Meadow View trail, a good half mile away. If he runs, he can be here in less than ten minutes. “10-4,” he replies, and turns up the speaker on his two-way, just in case.

“Sir,” Dean calls out again, “put the gun down!” The guy still doesn’t turn, so Dean looks around for something- anything he can use to get the guy’s attention so he doesn’t have to shoot. Stunning the guy would be preferable. Protocol states that anyone who refuses to surrender his or her weapon is subject to action at the discretion of the Law Enforcement rangers. If he doesn’t give up the gun, Dean might have to do more than tase him. He swallows hard and takes a small step forward. There’s less than ten feet between him and Bird Guy now. Realizing that throwing something to get the guy’s attention might make him discharge the gun accidentally, Dean goes back to his previous plan of action.

“SIR! PUT THE GUN DOWN!” he shouts, as loud as he can, and this finally gets Bird Guy’s attention. He wheels around with the gun still raised, and Dean acts on instinct, raising his own gun in defense. The guy’s eyes go wide, and Dean stupidly thinks, _oh, they_ are _blue,_ before several things happen all at once.

Dean realizes the thing in Bird Guy’s hand isn’t a gun at all, unless he’s using some kind of throwback-futuristic technology from a bad ‘50s sci-fi movie, because the “gun” has a radio dish attached to it. Bird Guy pushes the headphones off onto his shoulders and throws his arms out to the sides in surrender, saying, “Please don’t shoot!” Dean realizes he never even took the safety off the pistol, and is glad for it.

Bird Guy slowly crouches down to set the odd instrument on the ground. He rises up just as slowly and puts his hands back in the air, and Dean realizes he’s still aiming the gun at the man.

“Shit,” he says, holstering the weapon. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you. I thought you were poaching.” Now that he’s close, he can see the exact shade of Bird Guy’s eyes. Deep blue, like the Potomac at dawn. His brow is knit together in concern. He’s wearing a bright yellow tie with a cartoon sparrow on it. Dean feels like an asshole.

“It’s a monocular,” Bird Guy offers, as if that clears anything up. He still has his hands in the air. Dean mirrors his stance, putting both hands up to show that they’re empty.

“Sir, it’s okay. I apologize. You can go back to… whatever that was. Monoculing, whatever.”

“It’s like binoculars, but there’s only one lens,” the guy explains, crouching to retrieve the device. “ _Mon_ -ocular. And the dish is for capturing sound.”

 _Shit._ Dean’s never been so embarrassed. He holds up a finger, as politely as possible, and speaks into his shoulder mic. “Delta 429.”

“429, go ahead.”

“Cancel that 10-15. False alarm. Tell Bravo he can stay up on Meadow View.” 

Bird Guy squints and cocks his head, possibly confused by the voice protocol language.

“10-4,” Garth sings, and Dean turns the volume down on his speaker as dispatch sends out the call to Bravo 618.

“Sorry for the confusion,” he offers, finally feeling his heart rate slowing.

“I was listening for bird calls,” Bird Guy says. His voice is low and rough, but kind. “I’m an ornithologist.”

“You… study birds.”

Bird Guy nods. They stand there for another moment, and Dean fastens his hands tightly around his duty belt to keep them from hanging awkwardly at his sides. Bird guy looks inexplicably calm, seeming to have recovered quite well from the shock of being held at gunpoint.

Dean realizes he’s been staring and starts to back away. “Okay. Well, sorry again. You uh, you have a nice day now. Um.” He turns, takes a step, and trips over some invisible obstacle on the path. “Have a good day,” he repeats, and hurries off down the trail.

.•.

Dean isn’t moping. Moping is for the weak. Instead, Dean dives into work with renewed vigor, beats his brother _extra_ hard at basketball on Saturday, and bakes (and then demolishes) a perfect pecan pie in the time it takes to watch three episodes of Dr. Sexy on Monday night.

On Tuesday morning, Dean considers switching trails with Benny, but decides against it. He’d gotten enough flack from the Cajun asshole last week. When he’d shown up at the end of the day, hard-faced and embarrassed, Benny only offered a split second of genuine concern before cracking a wide smile and guffawing. 

“It was _Hot Bird Guy?_ ” he’d cried, and Dean just shot him a look, because _seriously, he’d never called him Hot Bird Guy._

Instead, Dean decides to make his rounds early and be done with it before Bird Guy gets to the park. That way, he can get the job done and still retain his pride. Dean grabs a powdered donut from Garth’s desk, cramming it into his mouth in two giant bites, and walks out the door. He wipes the sugar on his khakis as he goes, wishing he’d thought to bring his canteen today.

He gets about a quarter of a mile down the trail when his two-way crackles to life. “Delta 429,” Garth says.

“429,” Dean replies into his shoulder mic.

“Boss wants to speak to ya. Says it’s important.” 

Dean scoffs. He just saw Sam less than ten minutes ago. Whatever he needs can wait until after he finishes his rounds. “Tell him I’ll be back by nine.”

The speaker stays silent, and Dean breathes deeply, filling his lungs with the crisp air of early morning. The sun is just peeking up over the trees to the East, painting the surrounding landscape in peach and gold. For a moment, Dean feels peaceful and serene, alone on the wide trail, until Garth’s twang sounds through the speaker again, upsetting a bird in a nearby tree.

“Delta 429, that’s a no-go. 10-3, A.S.A.P.,” he rhymes. “Over and out.” _Shit._ It must be urgent. So much for serenity. 

He arrives back at the station ten minutes later and snags a paper cup full of water from the cooler. Garth gives him a two-fingered salute and a smile that Dean doesn’t reciprocate because they’d already been through that same routine earlier this morning. Instead, he crushes the paper cup and tosses it backwards into the trash can on the way into Sam’s office.

The door is shut, and Dean eyes his brother through the frosted glass before swinging it open. “Hey,” he says, giving Sam a once over. He looks about the same as he had a half hour ago- dressed in his green Mason Neck polo, seated at his desk, eyes on his computer screen. “Everything okay?”

To his surprise, Sam smiles. “Yeah. Check this out.” He swivels his monitor toward Dean and clicks on a thumbnail photo. “Look familiar?”

It’s a picture of one of the weird wooden things he found, still rooted in place, surrounded by blue plastic things. “Where’d you find that? Those ghost chasers post it on their website or somethin’?”

“Facers,” Sam corrects, and Dean groans.

“Not you too.”

Sam swivels the monitor back around and clicks around for a bit, bringing up another page. “It’s a bowerbird nest,” he says, motioning for Dean to come around the desk to look over his shoulder. The monitor shows a simple green website depicting unusual bird nests, and there in the first spot is that same odd circular structure that Dean’s become so familiar with.

“Son of a bitch,” he says.

“Get this,” Sam clicks over to another tab- a Wikipedia entry about bowerbirds- and moves aside so Dean can read it. “They’re native to Australia and New Guinea. That’s why you didn’t recognize the nest.”

Dean wants to point out that his big-shot brother with his fancy Masters Degree in Conservation Ecology didn’t recognize the nest either, but he doesn’t. Instead, he skims the article.  


> _Bowerbirds /ˈbaʊərbɜrd/ make up the bird family Ptilonorhynchidae. They are renowned for their unique courtship behaviour, where males build a structure and decorate it with sticks and brightly coloured objects in an attempt to attract a mate._
> 
> _Although their distribution is centered on the tropical regions of New Guinea and northern Australia, some species extend into central, western, and southeastern Australia. They occupy a range of different habitats, including rainforest, eucalyptus and acacia forest, and shrublands._

  
“Shit, I can’t believe I pulled a bird’s nest out of the ground.” The number one rule of the park is not to disturb the wildlife. It’s been drilled into his head by his brother and their bosses for years, so he’s grateful that Sam seems to be sympathetic.

“What the hell is a bird like that doing in Virginia?” Dean asks. Sam just shrugs but looks excited. 

“We should call up to the refuge, see if they have any contacts in ornithology,” Sam suggests.

Dean drops his head and sighs. _You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me._

.•.

Two hours later, Dean is on his way down the front trail, grumbling to himself. After Sam beat it out of him that Hot Bird Guy is, in fact, a real ornithologist, he pulled the Boss card and told Dean to suck it up and ask for the guy’s help. There was a lot of lecturing about _invasive species_ and the _delicate ecosystem_ , but Dean stopped paying attention. He’s mortified at the thought of having to talk to Bird Guy again, but he knows Sam is right: the introduction of a foreign bird into their environment is hazardous.

Dean makes it to the head of Bay View trail, passing the first groups of tourists and students on their way into the park. He goes over what he’s going to say for the tenth time. _Hey, I know I almost shot you last week, but it turns out it’s kind of great that that happened because now we really need your expertise._ He sighs. Anything he could say to the guy is going to sound ridiculous after their unfortunate encounter.

When he rounds the bend in the trail and approaches the row of benches, he momentarily freezes in his tracks. Bird Guy’s usual bench is empty, and he’s nowhere to be seen. Dean checks his watch. It’s nearing 10:30, so he should definitely be here by now. He’s eaten lunch in the park every Tuesday in a row for a month, coming sometime around 10:30 am and leaving sometime after noon. Dean scans the tree line and the surrounding areas, heads back toward the picnic tables and covered seating areas, checks the men’s restroom, but to no avail. 

Bird Guy never shows.

.•.

Dean is moping. Moping is a perfectly reasonable thing for a man to do, no two ways about it. Sam is the first one to notice, even though Dean does a pretty thorough job of looking as impassive as possible when he comes back to the station for lunch.

“What happened?” Sam asks, scowling at Dean’s unhealthy food. Dean takes a giant bite out of his cheesy burrito, just to spite him.

“Nuthin,” he mumbles, but Sam aims a face at him and he caves. “Alright.” He swallows the bite of burrito and wraps it up again. He’s lost his appetite anyway. “Bird Guy wasn’t there.”

“But it’s Tuesday,” Sam remarks, arranging his salad, and Dean just says nothing.

Benny is the next to notice. They generally spend the afternoons together down at the visitor’s center, aiding Donna and Jody or answering visitors’ questions. So on the following Tuesday, after Dean discovers that Bird Guy’s bench is once again empty, he and Benny walk together to the center in silence. Their boots crunch over dried leaves and twigs for several long minutes before Benny elbows Dean in the ribs. “Trouble in paradise?”

Dean knows he can’t hide anything from him, so he just shrugs. “I think I scared Bird Guy away for good.”

“Didn’t show up again today?” Benny asks, voice soft with genuine concern, and Dean smiles a little. Their friendship has always been effortless, even when Dean came out to him a few years ago after Sam and Donna insisted that Benny would be okay with it. He had been, and has continued to be supportive.

Dean shakes his head, fiddling with the retractable cord that his keys are attached to. 

Benny eyes him a little as they walk, and finally sighs. “I don’t know, brotha.” 

Dean doesn’t know either, but he makes a good show of being just fine when they get to the visitor’s center. There’s a whole group of school children there, looking at Dean and Benny like they’re super heroes. Dean sets his mind to the task of answering their questions and forgets about Hot Bird Guy for a little while.

.•.

“Dean, why don’t you just find the guy and talk to him?” Sam asks as they drive home from work in the evening. Sam and his wife live just down the street from Dean, so most days they just carpool. Today, Dean wishes his brother had walked to work.

“Sammy.”

“Really, Dean,” Sam insists, turning his gargantuan frame to face him. “You’re moping.”

“I am not,” Dean says, knowing full well that he is. “Besides, how am I supposed to find the guy, exactly? I don’t know his name. All I know is he’s an ornithologist and he wears a lot of bird ties.”

“I’ll do some research,” Sam promises.

But his research proves unfruitful. There are nearly thirty chapters of the Virginia Society of Ornithologists, not to mention the multiple chapters in Maryland, DC, and the surrounding areas. Finding one specific ornithologist without so much as a name would be like trying to find a needle in a haystack. Sam tells Dean as much on Wednesday morning.

“Why don’t you try something else?” Sam asks as they walk into work together, waving to Garth at his desk.

Dean waits until they’re within the safety of Sam’s office with the door closed before rounding on him. “Why don’t you just drop it? Call up Bobby over at the reserve, ask if he knows any bird experts.”

“I’m in the process of doing that,” Sam huffs, dropping into his chair. “And this isn’t about needing an ornithologist. I haven’t seen you this depressed since Keith Anderson moved away.”

Dean fumes, because _seriously, how does Sam remember this crap?_ Kid couldn’t have been more than nine when Dean’s middle school crush left town. “Shut up,” he says, dropping into one of the seats across from his brother.

“I’m serious, dude,” Sam tells him, turning his puppy dog eyes on full-force. “I’ve been thinking. Maybe you can try the Mag? You know, put out one of those missed connections things?”

The DC/VA Weekly Magazine, or “the Mag” as it’s known, is more of a rag than anything, but everyone in town reads it to stay up to date on arts, entertainment, and food venues. It’s also widely known for its flourishing personal ad section, including a pretty impressive Missed Connections service. Dean reads them for kicks sometimes, but he’s never considered writing one himself. The people who write those things must be desperate and sad. _Like you are right now,_ his traitorous brain supplies.

“No,” he says, getting up, but Sam pins him with another look.

“What do you have to lose?”

“No.”

“Why not, Dean?”

“Because,” Dean growls, asserting his older brother dominance.

“Think about it,” Sam suggests. 

Dean decides that he won’t.

.•.

Dean can’t stop thinking about it. The more he thinks about it, in fact, the more sense it seems to make. Nearly everyone in the northeast Virginia/DC area reads the Mag, and he could keep the entry as vague as possible so it could be considered a coincidence if things go to shit. He writes entries in his head as he does his rounds.

_You- hot bird guy. Me- Stupid fuck who almost killed you. Come back, please?_

_You sit in my park on Tuesdays. I… patrol the park. We could… be in the park together._

_You- bird ties. Me- khaki uniform. Us-_

Dean’s train of thought is interrupted when he has to stop a group of teenagers from climbing the trees, but at lunchtime he grabs a scrap of paper and pen off of Garth’s desk and hides in the kitchen area.  


> _Been trying to work up the nerve to say hi to you all month, but I almost shot you two weeks ago and you haven’t been back since. Promise it won’t happen again. If you want, I can make it up to you. Same time, same place next Tuesday? -Ranger_

  
He reads it over a few times, and, satisfied, marches into Sam’s office and deposits it on his desk. Before Sam can comment, Dean turns around and heads out the door.

.•.

Even though it’s raining and chilly on Friday evening, Sam insists that they stop by a gas station on their way home to pick up the latest issue of the Mag. Dean tries to keep his eyes on the road as Sam flips to the personal ads. The second-to-last page is dedicated to missed connections, with brightly-colored text at the top that reads, **I SAW U**. Sam runs his finger down the line of text, hunched over in the waning light filtering in through the Impala’s rain-soaked windows.

“Ah,” he cries, jabbing his finger at an entry. “There it is! ‘Been trying to work up the nerve to say hi to you all month, but I almost shot you two weeks ago and you haven’t been back since.’”

“Yeah, I know what it says, Sammy,” Dean cuts him off, but Sam keeps reading.

“‘Promise it won’t happen again. If you want, I can make it up to you. Same time, same place next Tuesday? Signed, Hopelessly in Love.’”

Dean turns full-on sideways in his seat and grabs at the Mag. “You did not.”

Sam laughs. “I didn’t.”

“You bitch,” Dean sighs in relief, turning back to the road.

“Jerk,” Sam says, grinning from ear to ear. Dean boots him out of the car without pulling into the driveway, forcing him to run up to his door in the rain.

.•.

Sam left the Mag in the car, so Dean spends the entire weekend reading it and trying desperately not to worry over the I SAW U section. He ends up reading every “Women Seeking Men” and “Men Seeking Men” entry in the personals, and even reads some of the “Women seeking Women” ads before he can’t take it anymore and flips the page.

 _this was a fuckin terrible idea sammy,_ he sends in a text, but Sam has no sympathy.

_Oh, grow up. What’s the worst that can happen, you big baby_

_ur a big baby,_ Dean replies, and turns his phone off.

.•.

He’s a nervous wreck on Tuesday. Somehow, Garth got wind of what was up and bought him a card, which he presents to Dean with the utmost seriousness when he gets to the station in the morning.

The card is green and yellow, and has two cartoon birds on the front holding up a paper banner that reads, “Good Luck!” It makes Dean feel a little queasy. He clenches his jaw and strides back out the door, tossing the card in the outdoor paper recycling bin.

Dean meets Benny up on Meadowview Trail and he suggests that they take a trip to the visitor’s center to take his mind off of things. “Seen any more nests?” Benny asks, by way of a distraction, but it makes Dean think about Bird Guy anyway.

“Not since the first one,” he replies. He’s kept his eyes peeled for anything unusual, and Sam called a meeting last week to explain the bowerbird problem to everyone. The rangers have all been given pictures of both the bowerbirds and their nests. Garth even printed up colorful flyers to put on the information boards around the park, just in case visitors spot anything. Still, no one has seen any traces of the birds in weeks.

They make it to the visitor’s center, where Donna immediately accosts Dean. “So, today’s the day, huh?” 

“God, you’re almost as bad as Garth,” Dean gripes.

Benny claps him on the back and heads over to Jody’s desk at the front. Dean is glad that his hat covers his ears, because he can feel the heat from his face radiating up and out. “How the hell does everybody know about this?” he hisses, looking around the room. It’s only 8:15, so the park just opened and there aren’t many visitors yet. Still, Dean half expects everyone in the building to be looking at him funny.

“Read it in the Mag, Dean,” Donna says, fishing her copy out of her desk. “Everybody reads it!”

“Awesome,” he says, feeling a headache coming on.

.•.

Benny offers to come with him to Bayview Trail, but Dean waves him off. He can feel his heart pounding like a jackhammer already. He doesn’t need his coworker there to witness the potential disaster.

He has a couple of backup plans. 

First of all, if Bird Guy doesn’t show up, he’s just never going to think about him again. End of story. The guy’s probably straight, anyway. 

Secondly, if the guy does show up, Dean’s going to ask if he read the Mag this week. That way, he’ll know right off the bat if the guy read his I SAW U and came back because of it. 

And thirdly, if the guy says no, or tells him he isn’t interested, Dean will tell him he only wanted to ask him about the bowerbirds. 

They’re flawless plans. 

He’s going to throw up.

When he reaches the top of the trail at 10:22, Dean decides to stop in the men’s restroom to check his appearance. There’s not much to see- just his reddened, freckled face and slight stubble under his hat and khaki uniform- but it makes him feel a little bit better. He splashes some cold water on his face and breathes deeply, in and out.

Dean rounds the bend in the trail right at 10:30 and has to stop himself from pumping the air with his fist when he sees the distant shape of the ornithologist on his usual bench, writing in his yellow notebook. He approaches casually, going over his three plans in his head. _Well, two plans. The first one is moot, because the guy actually showed up._

When Dean gets close enough, Bird Guy looks up at him, and he’s surprised to see not fear nor disgust, but recognition and relief. It immediately sets him at ease. “Mornin’,” he calls, when he’s still a safe distance away, and the man sets his notebook down.

“Hello,” Bird Guy says. His tie is dark blue with a white and yellow cockatoo. His smile is polite but genuine. “I’m glad you’re here,” he says, and Dean can’t help the slow smile that spreads across his face.

“Oh, yeah?” he asks, coming to rest a few feet from the bench. He turns the speaker down on his two-way so the incessant rumbling of dispatch calls won’t break through, taking a deep breath before diving in. “You read the Mag this week?”

Bird Guy cocks his head in confusion. “The Mag?”

 _Oh shit._ “Yeah, you know. The uh. The DC/VA Weekly Magazine?”

“Oh,” Bird Guy says, still looking a bit confused. “The Mag. No, I haven’t had occasion to read it.”

 _Fuck._ “Uh,” Dean flounders. “Oh.” 

All of the plans fly out the window. Dean’s brain checks out. His body steers him away, back up the path. He ignores the man’s plea to come back.  
  


* * *

Castiel is having a very unusual month. For starters, he’s only just begun his lectures at the university, and while giving public speeches is something he’s become accustomed to, he’s still having a hard time adjusting to leading weekly classes. At least in his primary occupation, his leadership roles are behind the scenes. He likes it better that way.

At the park where he goes for lunch in between lectures, the Ranger passes by him twice every Tuesday- presumably on his way through and back from his daily trail inspection- and Castiel had begun to look forward to seeing him. They generally share a smile or a polite nod, and it is often the least worrisome and most pleasant human interaction Castiel encounters on those days after hours of intense questioning and stress. 

The Ranger is an incredibly handsome man of about thirty, and Castiel felt uncharacteristically pleased to see that his ring finger was empty of a band, or even a tan line, when he first laid eyes on him. But even after eight encounters with the Ranger, Castiel couldn’t work up the courage to speak to him. It was incredibly unfortunate, then, that their first interaction was under near-catastrophic circumstances. 

The Ranger had reacted in a way that Castiel now realized was entirely reasonable, given the appearance of the situation. The more he thought about it, the more Castiel had realized how upset the Ranger must have been by his actions after realizing his mistake. Castiel wanted nothing more than to put the man’s mind at ease, but he’d left for a speaking engagement at a summit in Johannesburg the following day and was out of the country for two weeks. When he returned home to DC, jetlagged and mentally exhausted, he took comfort in the fact that he could soon return to the park to set things right.

However, as he watches the Ranger hurrying in the opposite direction down the trail, he can’t help but think that somehow things went completely and inexplicably wrong.

Castiel is confused for the better part of the evening, finding that he isn’t entirely listening when students ask him questions throughout his second lecture. By the time 7:30 rolls around, he can hardly think of anything else but getting his hands on a copy of the Mag. Perhaps the Ranger had recognized him and seen some sort of article that had been written about him. _But why would it have upset him so much to know that he hadn’t read it?_

He asks one of his younger students where he could find this week’s edition of the publication and heads to the store to retrieve it. The cover article is about a local high school production of _Les Miserables_ , and the blurbs are mostly food or concert related. Castiel decides that he will investigate more thoroughly after he’s gotten home and eaten dinner.

After heating up yesterday’s pasta, he sits at his kitchen counter and flips to the Table of Contents. There are sections labeled _Art, Music, Live Entertainment, Fashion, Food,_ and _Classifieds._ None of these sections seem entirely pertinent to himself or to the Ranger, so he decides to read through them all. He feels his eyes drooping when he reaches the Live Entertainment section, so he heads to bed. He has an early day tomorrow, anyway.

.•.

Over the course of the week, Castiel has meetings and conferences that last well into the evenings, and he finds woefully little time to spend reading through the Mag. He arrives home drained and starving, leaving just enough time to throw together a quick meal and shower before falling heavily into his bed.

On Sunday, Castiel finally experiences a reprieve. He has a brief video conference at 5:15 a.m. (3:00 p.m. Nepal time) and a few phone calls to make in the late morning, but afterward brews a pot of green lavender tea and sits down in his plush armchair to continue perusing the Mag.

By dinner time, he’s read the entire publication cover to cover (apart from the classifieds), but finds nothing of importance. He decides to make eggplant with a side of grilled asparagus, finishing it off with a glass of Zinfandel. Gabriel calls at 7:30 to tell him he’ll be in the States in June. Castiel mentions the curious incident with the attractive ranger, and his brother sighs. “Nobody scares the men off like you, Cassie,” he says, and Castiel bids him goodnight.

He cleans his plate and loads the dishwasher, pausing to debate over whether or not to pour another glass of wine, which he does. He goes over his notes for tomorrow’s meeting, spends a few minutes uploading photos from his African safari, and winds up back in the armchair with the Mag on his lap. They publish the _New York Times_ crossword on the back page, so he flips to that and gets to work.

He gets stuck on a few of the indirect clues, his eyes wandering to the page opposite the crossword while he thinks. It appears to be a page full of personal ads. A brightly-colored title at the top reads, **“I SAW U.”** Castiel skims through them, paying only as much attention as he can spare while still puzzling out the clue in the back of his mind.

Suddenly, his eye catches on the word “Ranger.” He narrows his eyes, leaning in closer to read. Thirty seconds later, there is a seeping wine stain on the hardwood and he’s on the phone with Gabriel again, discussing what on Earth he should do.

.•.

He’s swamped all throughout the next day, which ends up being a blessing and a curse. It helps distract him from worrying over the situation with the Ranger, but he can’t help but fret during every small pause in his day that each passing minute is another missed opportunity. His mind is buzzing with what-ifs and possibilities, and for once, he’s anxious for his work day to be over.

When he gets home in the evening, he goes to his closet and chooses his outfit for the next day- a crisp, white button-down shirt, a pair of tailored khaki slacks, and his favorite tie- the one with the Great Blue Heron. His mother had given it to him many Christmases ago, assuring him that it would bring out the blue in his eyes. He folds the ensemble neatly over the back of a chair and gets in the shower.

He shaves carefully with lather and a warm washcloth, applying the same care that he uses for grooming before an important summit or seminar. When all is said and done, it is well past the time that he usually goes to bed. He turns on the sound machine at his bedside, hoping the sounds of the rainforest will lull him to sleep. He’ll be exhausted tomorrow as it is.

.•.

Against his better judgement, Castiel gets an espresso on his way to the University and fidgets all through his morning lecture. If the students notice, they don’t comment on it. He drives cautiously to the park at 9:45, not wanting to be pulled over for speeding on today of all days. He arrives at Mason Neck just before 10:15, entering the reserve alongside families of tourists and students with kayaks in tow. He didn’t bring his yellow notebook. It would only be a distraction.

He brought the Mag with him, just in case there is any further misunderstanding. As he settles down on his usual bench, he unfolds it onto his lap and reads the entry again.  


> _Been trying to work up the nerve to say hi to you all month, but I almost shot you two weeks ago and you haven’t been back since. Promise it won’t happen again. If you want, I can make it up to you. Same time, same place next Tuesday? -Ranger_

  
Castiel shakes his head, feeling an odd combination of nervous anticipation and mortification. He pulls his phone out of his pocket to check the time, and, seeing an unread text message from Gabriel, unlocks the screen. _Good luck bro! ;D_ It says. Castiel smiles and pockets the phone again. It’s nearing 10:30. The Ranger should be by any time.

He hears the rustling of birds taking flight before he sees the khaki shape coming around the bend in the path. His heart catches in his throat and he turns to look, holding in a nervous breath. But the ranger that approaches is not _the_ Ranger- it’s a burly man, walking in purposeful strides down the trail. When he notices Castiel, he speaks into the radio on his shoulder. He’s too far away to understand, but a moment later the speaker on his hip crackles to life, loud enough to hear.

“Staying put, signal 11. Over and out,” the voice says, and Castiel thinks it might be _his_ Ranger. He wonders what signal 11 means. The other man gives him a curt nod as he passes, and Castiel deflates, feeling lost again.

He can think of only one way to repair the seemingly hopeless situation. He calls Gabriel as soon as his evening lecture is over and asks him for assistance in composing a response to the Ranger’s I SAW U.  
  


* * *

“Delta 429,” Benny’s voice comes over the two-way. He suggested a permanent switch on Tuesdays, so Dean’s up on Meadow View trail, patrolling Benny’s area.

“429,” Dean answers. He’s been on edge all day. His heart rate picks up a little, so he slows his pace, coming to lean on the wooden railing of the footpath.

“10-48 on Bayview.” _Shit._ Benny’s being coy on purpose, not wanting to alert everyone on the frequency to the situation, but Dean knows that the 10-48, or _wanted person_ , code means that Bird Guy is there, in his usual spot. Dean shakes his head and presses the PTT on his shoulder.

“Staying put, signal 11. Over and out,” he says. _Signal 11. Personal reasons._ He scrubs a hand down his face and continues walking, trying to shake thoughts of Bird Guy from his mind.

.•.

This has got to be the worst month of Dean’s life. Sam has redoubled his efforts to locate and apprehend the loose bowerbird, so Dean and the other rangers are all making their rounds constantly instead of just twice a day. Fearing that Bird Guy would show up on a different day or at a different time than his usual Tuesday at 10:30, Dean completely switched trails with Benny. Sam offered him time off, but he doesn’t want to be tempted to waste the days away in a whiskey-induced fog.

He spends most of his day on the distant Meadow View trail closest to the edge of the park with the two-way turned down low, eating his lunch in private and generally avoiding Garth at all costs. By Friday, even Benny has begun giving him pitying looks. Sam invites him over for dinner and he agrees. Even though he knows that Sam has probably updated his wife about the situation, he suspects that Amelia is tactful enough not to bring it up.

They drive home in a silence broken only by small talk and Sam’s insistence that they contact the animal sanctuary to send an expert over to help find the bowerbird. Dean notices how he carefully avoids saying the word “ornithologist.” They stop at the Gas ‘n Sip on the way so that Sam can get dessert. Dean tries to school his features when he notices this week’s edition of the Mag tucked into the plastic shopping bag when he returns.

Amelia serves a healthy yet tasty vegetable lasagna, and Sam produces apple pie, warm from the oven, with a melting scoop of ice cream on top of Dean’s slice. They don’t talk about birds or work or the Mag.

.•.

Dean wakes up with a start on Saturday morning, casting about in his darkened bedroom for something- the lightswitch, his service pistol- anything. He realizes a moment later that he was awoken by his phone vibrating. He drops back down into the pillows, willing his heart to stop its jackhammer beat against his ribs.

He unplugs the phone from the charger at his bedside and cracks an eye to read the display, which shows that he has a missed call and a voicemail from Sam. “Call me when you wake up,” Sam’s voice tells him. His heart begins to pick up again as he dials the number and waits.

“Dude,” Sam answers. “I’m on my way over.”

Dean sits up straight in bed and throws his legs over the side. “What happened?” he asks. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Sam replies, “be there in a minute.” He hangs up, and Dean looks at the screen in confusion. He only has time to pee and pull on a pair of jeans before Sam is opening the front door, the Mag in hand.

.•.

"Son of a bitch," Dean says, hunched over the Mag spread out on the kitchen counter. Sam, looming over his left shoulder, laughs. There's a small entry on the bottom right side of the I SAW U page, hastily circled in blue ink. The title reads, " **RE: Ranger.**  


> _I, too, have been working up the courage to say hello. I regret not having read "The Mag" sooner. Same time and place, next Tuesday? I promise to leave the monocular at home._

  
"Well, I’ll be goddamned,” Dean says.

Tuesday can't come soon enough.

.•.

Dean receives no less than ten calls and texts throughout the day, each one asking if he's read the Mag yet or bidding him congratulations. He smiles at each one, replying with a quick _thanks_ to Benny and Donna, and a playful _fuck you_ to Jody, who had written _Don't fuck it up this time!_

He and Sam catch the Jayhawks game on Sunday (they're still Kansas boys at heart) and Amelia calls to invite Dean for dinner. She serves a selection of bean burgers and beef burgers and thick-cut french fries, and Dean knows it's a celebration.

He can feel the nervous anticipation building again, but it's different this time- a relieved, bubbly sort of thing that leaves Dean with the feeling that he's floating. On Tuesday morning, when Garth looks up at him and offers him a hesitant “Good luck,” Dean accepts it graciously and claps him on the shoulder.

He stops into Sam's office before heading out on his rounds. Sam looks like a giant, over-excited puppy.

"Alright, calm your tits," Dean gripes. 

"Fine," Sam holds up his hands, grinning from ear to ear. “Just, good luck. And if all goes well, I wanna meet him."

"We'll send you a save-the-date card," Dean promises, but adds a "thanks," before stepping out of the office.

He feels a familiar anxiety itching under his skin- probably brought on by the similarity of the situation to that awful Tuesday two weeks ago- but it's quickly overwhelmed by excitement as he approaches Bayview Trail. It feels nice to be patrolling his own section of the park again. The air is sweet with the smell of blooming honeysuckle and the familiar laughter of birdsong. 

At 10:28, he rounds the bend in the path and sees Bird Guy sitting on his usual bench. He's writing in his yellow notebook. Dean takes a deep breath and tries to steady his racing heart. Bird Guy looks up and Dean is once again struck by his startling eyes. 

"Hey," he says, coming to rest at the other end of the bench.

"Hello," Bird Guy says, getting to his feet and holding up a folded copy of this week's DC/VA Magazine. To Dean's delight, he asks, "So, have you read the Mag this week?" and breaks into a wide smile.  
  


* * *

The Ranger has golden-green eyes that crinkle around the corners, and from this close, Castiel can see a spray of freckles across the bridge of his nose. He's struck at once by the man’s smile, lighting up his already gorgeous face. A golden badge on his chest reads _WINCHESTER._

"I'm Dean," he says, holding out a hand. His skin is warm and rough like his voice.

“Dean,” Castiel repeats, holding onto his hand for a beat longer. “I’m Castiel,” he offers, realizing that Dean doesn’t seem to mind the extended contact. They let their hands drop.

“It’s nice to finally meet you. You know. Again,” Dean says, looking embarrassed.

“I wanted to apologize for last time,” Castiel tells him. “I’d never actually read the Mag before. I had to ask a student where to find it.”

Dean huffs a self-deprecating laugh. “You gotta be the only person around here under the age of 65 who doesn’t read it. All of my coworkers have been keeping tabs on the saga.”

Castiel laughs in return, looking down at his shoes. “I suppose that’s partially my fault. I should have just said hello when I wanted to.” He looks back up to find Dean’s eyes searching his face curiously.

“And when was that?” he asks, voice low and husky. Castiel can feel its reverberations like a pulse thrumming through him.

“Months ago,” he admits.

They look thoughtfully at one another for a moment before Castiel asks, “Are you busy right now? Do you have time to take a lunch break?”

Dean leads him through the park and has him wait outside the ranger station while he retrieves his lunch. He’s only gone for a minute before he appears in the doorway and hops down the steps. “Let’s get out of here before Sam sees us,” he says without explanation, checking over his shoulder. 

He takes Castiel down the trail in the bright April sunlight, speaking softly to him as their shoulders occasionally brush. “I’m sorry I almost shot you,” he says, and Castiel laughs.

“No need to apologize, really,” Castiel assures him. “You were just doing your job. I actually wanted to thank you for that. You put yourself in potential danger to defend the wildlife.”

Dean assesses him for a moment. “You really love birds, huh?” he asks, and Castiel nods.

“Also, I wanted to let you know that I didn’t stop coming here because of that,” he adds, and Dean looks over at him expectantly. “I was just out of town.”

Dean’s face relaxes into a satisfied grin that has Castiel smiling in return.

They come to a bend in the path where the earth falls away to the Potomac, its placid surface reflecting the brilliance of the blue, cloudless sky. Dean gestures to a bench on the secluded side of the trail where they sit and open their lunches.

“So you’re a teacher?” Dean asks around a mouthful of sandwich. It’s more endearing than it probably should be.

“Not exactly,” Castiel says. “The Smithsonian-Mason School of Conservation has asked me to be a guest lecturer on Tuesdays.”

Dean’s eyes are wide. “Sounds fancy,” he says. 

Castiel waves him off. “It’s just a lot of pontificating on my part.” 

He asks Dean about working in the park. Dean gets a fond look on his face as he explains what led him and his brother here years ago.

“Sammy’s a scientist, though,” he explains. “Actually, he’s probably gonna want to talk to you about this bird situation we’ve been having.”

 

“Bird situation?” Castiel repeats.

Dean shakes his head. “It’s nothing serious. Just might need help with an invasive species. You got a card or anything I can give him? If you don’t mind him calling to ask for advice, that is,” he amends.

“No, of course not.” Castiel opens his wallet and thumbs through his business cards, looking for the one with his personal number that he gives out after speaking engagements. “You know,” he begins, feeling bold, “if you wanted to get my number, you could have just asked for it.” Castiel loves the flush that creeps up past the collar of Dean’s uniform.

Castiel breaks into a grin, and they share a laugh. Dean holds the card up, examining it.

“So, Castiel Novak,” he reads, becoming serious. “Are you free any time this week? Maybe we could get dinner or something?” 

Castiel basks in the triumph of the moment before remembering his plans for the next few days. “I’m… going out of town on Thursday,” he says, and Dean’s face falls a bit. “But I’m free tonight after my lecture, around 7:30.” He knows it’s sudden, but he’s waited so long to even speak to Dean; it would be a shame to have to wait a few more weeks.

“Awesome,” Dean says, genuinely, and claps his hands together. “I could make you dinner. You like burgers?”

Castiel makes an apologetic face. “I’m a vegan.” 

To his credit, Dean recovers very quickly from a flicker of momentary disappointment. “Veggie burgers?”

“Veggie burgers sound perfect,” Castiel says. 

They finish their lunch with wide smiles on their faces, and when Castiel has to leave, Dean walks him back down the path, eventually putting a hand at the small of his back to guide him through the turns. Castiel waits until a group of tourists pass before tugging Dean off the trail by the handcuffs at his waist. They spend a few wonderful minutes kissing like teenagers against a hickory tree, and Castiel hears the birds singing their praises in the forest around them.  
  


* * *

Dean is walking on air when he returns to the station after seeing Castiel out to his car. He hadn’t expected the make out session, but it had been awesome- heated and reckless and careless of the possibility of discovery. He walks into Sam’s office and shuts the door firmly, hoping everyone in the station gets the message. Sam’s eyebrows are almost up to his hairline. “So?” he asks.

“So,” Dean pulls Castiel’s card out of his pocket. “Got you this.” Sam takes it from him, still giving him a curious look. “It’s Bird Guy’s card,” Dean explains. Sam finally looks down to examine it. “For the bird thing.”

“Oh, thanks,” he says, and looks back up. Dean just smiles sweetly and says nothing.

“How did it go?” Sam asks. Dean can tell the anticipation is killing him, so he draws it out a little longer.

“Went alright. We talked a bit. Turns out he’s a vegan, just like Amelia. Speaking of which,” he adds, thinking, _excellent segue,_ “you guys got any veggie burgers?”

Sam’s face breaks into a smile, but he thankfully doesn’t make a big deal about it. “I do, as a matter of fact. Will you be needing them this evening?”

“I will,” Dean replies, getting up to leave.

“Dean,” Sam calls, halting his progress out the door. “I’m really happy for you.” Dean feels a pang in his chest, so he pats his leg a few times and looks away.

“Yeah, well. Thanks.”

.•.

Sam retrieves the veggie burgers from inside his house when Dean drops him off, and Amelia follows him back outside. “I heard the good news,” she says, leaning into the driver’s side window. “I wanted to congratulate the two of you on finally getting your shit together.” She smiles at him fondly, and Dean returns the expression.

“Thanks,” he says, taking the proffered box of frozen veggie patties from her, and she and Sam wave him off.

Dean has to read the instructions on the veggie burgers, but they’re really not all that different from regular frozen patties. He cooks one up on a clean skillet instead of throwing it on the grill with his own beef patties. He sets two places at the table and waits.

At 7:33, he gets a text from Castiel saying he’s on his way.  
  


* * *

Castiel maintains his composure through his afternoon lectures, and finally breathes a sigh of relief when he steps out of the doors and into the chill evening air at 7:30. _On my way,_ he texts Dean, and programs his address into his phone GPS. It’s only a 20-minute drive from the school.

Dean’s house is a cozy, retro fixer-upper in a nice suburban neighborhood. The lawn is carefully mowed, but the trees and shrubbery overflow casually into the yard and against the wood panelling of the home. It looks like a wonderful place to live, Castiel decides, approaching the door. Much more cozy than his stark townhome in the city.

Dean meets him at the threshold with a soft, “hey,” and a warm smile. They eat their burgers at a high-top kitchen counter, sipping beers and laughing. It’s the most fun Castiel has had in a long time. Before he knows it, it’s close to 11:00. Dean catches him checking his watch.

“You gotta be up early?” he asks.

Castiel sighs. “Yes. I need to be at work in eight hours,” he says, toying with the mouth of his beer bottle.

Dean smirks a bit and reaches out, tugging gently on Castiel’s tie. “Well then.” 

He reels Castiel in and lets go when their lips meet, reaching his hands up to cup Castiel’s jaw. They move against each other, slowly at first, but Dean stands and plants himself between Castiel’s knees at the same time as he opens his lips. It’s faster, then. More insistent. Castiel groans into Dean’s mouth. 

“You could always stay,” Dean pants, moving his attention to Castiel’s ear and trailing kisses down his neck. “Borrow some of my clothes?”

It’s an hour drive to his home in Washington, and Castiel knows that it would take him about as much time to get to sleep after this. But even so, he has to be awake at 5:00. He has to shower. He has to prepare his notes for the meeting-

He loses momentary ability to focus when Dean’s mouth meets his again and their tongues slide against one another. 

He should stay. He should definitely stay.  
  


* * *

Dean discovers a neatly-folded note on the bedside table when his alarm goes off at 6:00.  


> Dean, last night was wonderful. Thank you for everything. I’ll be leaving for Geneva, Switzerland tomorrow for a Global Health summit. I’d like to see you before then. Dinner tonight? I can make a mac ‘n no-cheese that’ll make you wish you were vegan.  
>  Let me know,  
>  Castiel

  
He pulls out his phone and composes a text. _I’m on for dinner. Text me the address. We’ll see about the mac ‘n cheese thing. Ur recipe is gonna have to compare to my moms._

.•.

Sam is waiting for him outside when he pulls up at 7:40. "So?" he asks as soon as he gets in the car.

Dean flushes. "What?"

"How was dinner?"

"Oh, uh. Good," Dean says, backing out of the driveway.

“So listen, Dean. Don’t get mad, but I googled Castiel. Do you have any idea who he is?”

Dean furrows his brow, feeling suddenly concerned, but Sam laughs.

" _Dr._ Castiel Novak," he says. "He is the _Vice President_ of the World Wildlife Fund. You know, _the_ World Wildlife Fund? With the panda logo? They’re headquartered in DC, apparently. It says he’s got a PhD in Wildlife Biology, and _get this._ He was on the team that won the Nobel Peace Prize a few years ago.”

“Holy shit,” Dean breathes, trying to keep his eyes on the road. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I looked on the website. It’s got a picture and everything. He’s got dark hair and blue eyes, right?”

“That’s him.”

“He didn't tell you any of that?” Sam asks.

Dean thinks back. Castiel hadn’t told him anything about his position during dinner. He’d discussed his fondness for wildlife and his wish that he had more time to spend bird watching, but his job had never come up, and Dean hadn't pressed.

“I guess he’ll tell me when he’s ready.”

"But Dean," Sam begins. Dean cuts him off.

"Look, Sammy. I don't want it to get weird. So just, you know. Keep the fanboy act to a minimum, alright?"

Dean can see Sam visibly itching with questions, but he doesn't ask any of them. It makes him smile a bit, though, realizing how well the two nerds will get along. Once he allows them to meet, that is.

.•.

Dean successfully avoids all questioning from his coworkers until lunchtime, when Benny corners him in the kitchenette. "How'd it go?" he asks, smirking.

"Dude," Dean says under his breath, leaning in conspiratorially, "Bird Guy is _Dr. Castiel Novak,_ the VP of the World Wildlife Fund."

"No shit?" Benny laughs. "Guess that makes you, what, the first lady?" Dean punches him in the arm and stalks out of the room.

Around 3:00, Garth's voice crackles through Dean's two-way. "Delta 429."

"429," Dean replies into his shoulder mic, stooping low to pick up a discarded soda can on the trail. 

"Boss man wants to see ya when you get the chance," Garth replies.

"10-4," Dean says, and heads for the station.

Sam is in the meeting room, setting out stacks of paper for his weekly chat with the higher-ups in the park service. "Hey," he says, seeing Dean in the doorway. "So I called Dr. Novak."

"Seriously?" Dean asks, flopping into one of the plush office chairs at the table. "Dr. Novak?"

"It's a sign of respect, Dean," Sam huffs, carefully clipping two stacks of paper together with a binder clip. "Anyway, I told him about the bowerbird situation and he said he'd get right on it. Called me back five minutes later to say that an exotic bird rescue in Maryland is missing one of its spotted bowerbirds."

"That's quite the flight," Dean muses.

"No kidding. Apparently, they're an endangered species," he tells Dean. " _So,_ we've just become priority number one on the WWF list."

"What does that mean, exactly?" Dean asks.

"Castiel is putting together a task force to help locate the bird in the park. It should be fine for right now, but if it gets cold again like it did last month, it might not survive."

"Alright, what do I need to do?" Dean asks, and Sam smiles mischievously.

"Nothing. Castiel wanted me to tell you that he's cancelling his flight to Geneva to help out." Dean feels immediately ecstatic at the thought. Sure, the global health summit sounds important, but he doesn't feel like waiting weeks for Castiel to get back into the country. 

"He and the team will be here tomorrow morning, first thing," Sam continues, and that wipes the smile off of Dean's face. "We'll call a meeting then."

"Son of a bitch," Dean says. "Did you tell anyone that he’s Bird Guy?"

"Just Garth," Sam smiles. "And Donna and Jody, and I spoke to Benny about it. He already knew, though."

"Bitch," Dean accuses, getting up to leave.

"Have fun tonight, jerk," Sam calls after him.

.•.

Dean stops at home to take a quick shower and change clothes before fighting the post-rush hour Washington traffic. He follows the GPS directions to an attractive row of townhouses on the outskirts of DC. Castiel lives in number 667, which makes Dean laugh. He opens the door still dressed in Dean's too-large button-down shirt and plaid tie. Dean smirks at his mussed hair, which is usually carefully combed.

"I like your hair better that way, _Dr. Novak,_ " he remarks by way of a greeting.

"Hello, Dean," Castiel smiles fondly, closing the door behind him. "You know, nearly everyone at work noticed that I wasn't wearing a bird tie. It was extremely awkward trying to explain it." Dean finds that he isn't the least bit sorry. 

He surveys the house. It's beautifully furnished, but not overly ornate. The walls are a rich honey color and the furniture is eclectic and comfortable-looking. It suits Castiel, Dean decides. "Nice place," he says, pulling Castiel in by his birdless tie.

"Thank you," Castiel breathes into his mouth. They kiss lazily for a moment, and Dean can feel heat pooling in his belly. He pulls away and plants one last chaste kiss on Castiel's lips.

"I heard you've been calling me Hot Bird Guy," Castiel smirks, and Dean groans.

"Fucking Sammy." 

Castiel holds him in place with his arms firmly around Dean's back. He smiles coyly.

"It's okay, I told him about how my brother Gabriel has had to endure my endless tales of woe over the attractive Ranger in the park."

Dean grins at that. "Oh yeah?"

Castiel nods, hands roving over Dean's back and across to his chest. "Come on," he says, not making any effort to pull away. "Dinner's getting cold."

Dean can feel Castiel responding to the weight of his body pressed flush against his own. Experimentally, Dean moves his leg in-between Castiel's and presses against him. It makes Castiel growl low in his throat.

Dean pulls back slightly to tug at the plaid tie, loosening it. "Dinner can wait," he insists, dropping the tie to the floor. Castiel surges forward to capture Dean's mouth with his own, and Dean takes that to mean that he agrees.

They shuffle clumsily to the bedroom, Castiel leading the way and taking charge in removing Dean's clothes. He pushes Dean onto the bed and removes his own shirt and pants, slowly and carefully. Dean can't remember the last time he was so turned on.

Castiel settles over Dean on the bed, pausing to look deeply into his eyes. "What?" Dean asks, watching the man's face, but he just sighs and smiles. "I was just thinking that I'm very glad you nearly shot me."

**Author's Note:**

> Holy mother of Chuck, that was intense. I thank you all for sticking with me through that. As I said, the research was intense and ridiculous and the NSA probably has some questions for me. 
> 
> I had to research things like "can park rangers shoot people," "what ornithological tools might be mistaken for weapons," and the anatomy of a two-way radio. (Of course, I also had to google stuff like, "what wine pairs best with eggplant" and "what are the riddle puzzles on a crossword puzzle called." So. Perhaps they'll take it with a grain of salt.
> 
> In any case, I hope you all enjoyed this story. It became a labor of love. And Dearest Smut Brigade, I'm sorry it wasn't very smutty. Forgive me?
> 
> Come find me on [tumblr](Glassclosetcastiel.tumblr.com) and say hey!


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